


Boredom

by szm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/szm/pseuds/szm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock between cases. Brief cameo from John, mentions of Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft and Mrs Hudson. Not so much a story as just a character piece. Trying out my Sherlock voice a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boredom

Sherlock was self-aware enough to know that it followed a fairly predictable pattern. That in itself was boring.

First there would be a challenge. Sometimes private clients, sometimes a case, sometimes even something Mycroft gave him. Cases were the best; murders were the best of the best. Although John would no doubt frown at him if he expressed that thought out loud. Or at least if he expressed that thought where other people could hear it. ‘Civilians’ John had once said, during the case with the pastry chef. Sherlock had found the word… pleasing, at least coming from John anyway. But John had said it in conversation with Lestrade who had given John a variation of the little frown that John usually used on Sherlock and John hadn’t said it since. While the challenge, _the game_ , was on everything was bright and sharp. Colours were more vivid, sounds were louder, light was brighter. During the case everything was in its rightful place, everything and everyone. John was by his side, Molly was in the morgue, and Lestrade was never more than a text away. The answer was always there, just tantalisingly out of grasp, the world narrowed to that point, all the data joined up and flowed to it. Sherlock genuinely found it ridiculous that other people missed the pattern altogether. It seemed that it could be nothing short of wilful blindness. 

Then when Sherlock found his way to the answer, it was transcendent. It was amazing. It was one perfect moment of complete clarity. No-one really seemed to see how much that was worth just for itself; they were all too interested with what could be done with the information. 

Even Mycroft. Especially Mycroft.

John wanted to save people, Lestrade wanted to ‘catch the bad guy’, none of them valued the prize for what it was. 

John came the closest, he at least understood the value of the _chase_.

Then everything fell apart. That shining moment of perfection was brief, and left the world silent and colourless in its wake. These days at least he had John. Who was prepared to listen to Sherlock explain his deductions and marvel at them. It was a pale imitation but it did ease the transition. Like Methadone to an addict.

But without that fixed point to aim for, no puzzle to solve, everything just drifted. The lines of information danced and spilt flying off into different directions and leading Sherlock into observations that had people shouting and John frowning. People wandered away into pursuits and social conventions that bored Sherlock to tears. Lestrade had _paperwork_ and a wife who wouldn’t do the obviously decent thing and just leave him. John went out on dates with various hopeless women, each more boringly insipid than the last. Last month Molly had even gone on holiday to some place where it was sunny and nothing of any interest happened to anybody ever. The person who had covered for her had been wholly unsuitable, not only because he’s refused to let Sherlock take body parts off the premises. He was _not Molly_ , but he was standing in her place.

Eventually the world became nothing more than static and white noise. It was then Sherlock would do anything at all to bring something real back, something he could feel. Once upon a time that had meant drugs to sharpen his mind and make him focus. Now he was more likely to dig out John’s gun from whichever useless hiding place John had devised. The gun was fascinating; it was a power that was wholly John’s. Something that was as simple and complicated as John himself. Sherlock longed to understand it properly. But it was John’s, one of the very few lines John insisted on. Sherlock wanted John in his life more than he needed to know. 

Failing those options Sherlock found himself on the sofa, childishly refusing to eat or sleep, snapping at John and Mrs Hudson if they came near. Everything then became impossible, even breathing required more effort than Sherlock had available. If he dropped that far it was as if he was trying to think through pudding. He felt slow and stupid. It was intolerable. 

Sherlock attempted to stave that end off for as long as he was able. Cold cases, the colder the better because they were more difficult. He had to really _observe_ to pick up the threads of data. Experiments were good, not only for their own sake but also for the information gathered that would one day help him get back to that transcendent state he needed. Also experiments engaged John, brought his attention back onto Sherlock. John’s frustration and irritation weren’t as good as his praise but it was certainly better than nothing. Plus it distracted him away from the latest Janet or Mary or whoever it was determined to drag John into the mire of boring pointless drudgery the rest of the country was so proud to live in. That was practically altruistic. 

**

John got in a little after 10. Too early for the date to have gone well. Sherlock glanced over at his friend. Ah, John had the wrinkle in his forehead that meant he was worried about his sister and guilty that he wasn’t doing anything about her drinking. Probable that John’s date had one to many then. Which would explain the stain on John’s sleeve, vodka and coke which John didn’t drink as a rule. John would have helped her home, but wouldn’t be calling again. 

John paused for a spilt-second as he entered the flat, taking in the sight. He sighed heavily. “Sherlock…”

“Experiment,” said Sherlock dismissively, before turning back to the spreadsheet on his laptop.

“Experiment,” said John flatly, but Sherlock could hear the annoyance and amusement behind it. “Why would you feel the need to cover the whole flat in feathers?”

Sherlock turned back to John whose movement though the room had caused feathers to float up around him and stick to various parts of his clothing. Interesting. 

“I could tell you, John,” said Sherlock. “But I doubt very much that you’d understand.”

“So, just because you were bored then?” asked John shaking his head and moving towards the kitchen. “Tea?”

“No sugar,” replied Sherlock. Not stating a preference just informing John of a fact. “Horrifically bored. I may have to invent a new word.”

“I suppose I’m glad you found a way to stave it off then,” said John from the kitchen. 

John should find the ripped pillow cases about… now.

“Sherlock, are these. _Were_ these _my_ pillows?!”


End file.
